


A Helping Hand

by dracoqueen22



Category: Transformers Generation One
Genre: Brief Mentions of Sexual Harassment, Fluff, M/M, Romance, Tactile Sexual Interfacing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-09
Updated: 2015-12-10
Packaged: 2018-04-13 19:49:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4535073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dracoqueen22/pseuds/dracoqueen22
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mirage needs some assistance and Tracks is more than happy to step in and lend a paintbrush.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Skywinder](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skywinder/gifts).



> This is a gift fic for Skywinder but I also partially blame this on ladydragon76 because she gave us a delightfully creepy Smokescreen and now, whenever I need a handsy character, I turn to him. (poor Smokey, I promise to write a fic where he's not a creeper soon). There's no onscreen harassment, but Mirage does mention it.

It was the sound of muffled cursing that first drew his attention. While nothing unusual, given the cultured accent it accompanied, Tracks was intrigued. He slowed his pace and then stopped outside of a door to a berthroom.   
  
It was Mirage's. Curiouser and curiouser.   
  
Mirage sounded frustrated. While Tracks couldn't make out the cause of it, he felt obligated to inquire.   
  
He knocked. For a long moment, there was no answer. Tracks almost turned away. But then the door opened and Mirage peered out. He blinked in confusion.   
  
“Is something wrong?”   
  
Tracks chuckled. “I was actually going to ask you that. I was passing by and happened to hear you curse.”   
  
Mirage's faceplate reddened. “I'm sorry you heard me. I'm fine. I just...” He nibbled on his bottom lip, the dermal plating swelling in indication that it was a common behavior. “I have a terrible scuff on my back thanks to that oaf and I can't reach it.”   
  
Ah. Tracks knew this issue well. He often had to recruit assistance from Sunstreaker. His spoiler was prone to scuffs and scrapes.   
  
“I have no prior plans,” Tracks said. “Might I offer you some aid?”   
  
The door opened a bit further in obvious invitation. “I would be grateful. Thank you.”   
  
“Everyone deserves a stunning paint job,” Tracks said with a smile. He ducked inside, getting his first look at the small but immaculate room Mirage had claimed for himself.   
  
It was perfectly tidy and smelled of expensive wax. Mirage's supplies were laid out on a small table near a divan.   
  
“Have a seat,” Mirage said as he gestured toward the divan. “Or will that be too difficult?”  
  
It was just large enough for them both, actually, provided they arrange themselves accordingly. “It'll do.”   
  
Tracks lowered himself to the divan, choosing to straddle it instead as that would leave greater room for both he and Mirage upon it. He patted the cushion with one palm.   
  
“Are you going to join me?” he asked, flashing a smile up at the Towers noble.   
  
Mirage chuckled a little and joined him on the divan. “This position is undignified,” he said as he, too, straddled the divan, only directing his back toward Tracks.   
  
He immediately spied the troublesome area. There was a deep scratch in Mirage's usually flawless paint and despite Mirage's vaunted flexibility, not only couldn't he see the gash, he couldn't reach it properly.   
  
“Ah, the things we suffer for our art,” Tracks observed with a twitch of his lips.   
  
He contemplated Mirage's available supplies and grabbed the tube of nanite filler first. Two of these scratches were better called gouges. “Who did you say was responsible for this?”   
  
“I didn't.” Mirage sighed as Tracks leaned forward and delicately squeezed the gel into the first gouge in the blue metal. “It was Smokescreen.”   
  
“Ah.” Never took 'no' for an answer that one.   
  
Smokescreen wasn't a bad mech, but he could be annoyingly persistent and had an overdeveloped sense of ego. To be fair, many had accused Tracks of the same, but at least he understood that when a mech said no, he meant it. Attraction meant slag all in the face of a firm refusal.   
  
Smokescreen had yet to read that particular memo. And if he didn't get his act together, Jazz was going to have to teach him a hard lesson.   
  
“A poor attempt at seduction, I take it?” Tracks asked as he set the nanite gel aside and grabbed a shaper.   
  
He smoothed the excess away, filling up the scrapes so that they looked as smooth as the rest of Mirage's paint.   
  
“Yes.” Mirage gradually relaxed under his ministrations, field finally loose enough for Tracks to get a taste of the undercurrents of discomfort.   
  
Tracks clucked his glossa. “Clumsy.” He reached for the undercoat and twisted the brush through it before dabbing it carefully over the gelled scrapes. “It should be a crime.”   
  
“It is, I think.” Mirage continued to relax, his seams gradually opening and plating flaring. Comfort, Tracks hoped, with his presence. “But there are other things more effective than the judicial system.”   
  
Jazz then. Tracks did not envy Smokescreen that encounter. Oh, Smokescreen would live. But he would learn several things.   
  
Tracks suspected that the Ark would see a steep decline in the amount of Smokescreen harassment rather soon.   
  
“Very true. Remind me never to get on your bad side,” Tracks remarked with a little laugh. The brush swept smoothly, giving Mirage's armor a smooth finish for him to apply later coats of paint.   
  
Mirage's field purred with content. “I don't think there's any worry for that.” His upper armor fluffed as though flirting. Which Tracks certainly wasn't opposed. Mirage was beautiful and charming and Tracks would be flattered to be extended an invitation.   
  
“Good to know.” Tracks set down the primer and waited for it to dry while he inspected the paint Mirage used for his first coat. It was quality stuff. Not the best, but decent enough.   
  
“Thank you again,” Mirage said, shifting position a little on the divan. His ex-vents puffed out teasingly at Tracks' knees. “I could have waited until morning to ask Sunstreaker, but his mood can be a little tricky to navigate.”   
  
Tracks laughed. “Truer words have not been spoken.” Sunstreaker was a good soldier and a good friend, but he was not always in a good mood. “And it is all right. I am enjoying myself.”   
  
Mirage's vocals hummed into a higher pitch. “Is that so?” he asked, something sly in his words. He peeked over his shoulder. “You often enjoy, hm, assisting other mechs with their finish?”  
  
“Not all mechs, but there are ones who are more appreciative than others. And those who I can trust to treat my work with the care it deserves.” Tracks leaned forward to focus on applying the first coat. “Such as you, for example.”  
  
“Then I'll take that for the compliment it is,” Mirage hummed. His field was warm and open as it lingered on the edges of Tracks' own.   
  
He set aside the paint and brush for the first coat. It would be a few minutes for it to dry and apply the second, but already, Mirage's back plate was looking much better. The gouges were all but invisible. There was no trace of a collision. Sunstreaker, of course, would notice that there was only a single coat and no finish, but Sunstreaker was a perfectionist.   
  
Tracks cycled a ventilation and decided to take the opportunity presented to him. He flickered his field and letting it bump against Mirage's own, projecting his appreciation and his interest.   
  
“Correct me if I am wrong,” Tracks murmured as he let his field slide along Mirage's in a gentle caress. “But I gather it would not be untoward of me to touch you?”   
  
The plating along Mirage's upper back shuffled again, baring delicate components and cables to Tracks' view. “I was wondering if you were reading my signals,” Mirage said warmly. “If you are not opposed then yes, I would enjoy your touch.”   
  
Heat slithered into Tracks' systems. He raised his hands and delicately rested his fingertips on Mirage's shoulders, gently sliding them along the white, glossy paint. It was smooth to the touch, a purr to his dermal plating. Tracks' internal temperature notched several more degrees.   
  
“Such as this?” Tracks asked as he let his fingers trail downward, one sliding along the length of Mirage's right arm, the other dipping further down Mirage's back, though careful to skirt the area of drying paint.   
  
Mirage's field shivered. More armor twitched and slid aside, revealing the tempting web of cables and a peek of silvery protoform. Tracks' mouth went dry.   
  
“That is acceptable,” Mirage murmured. He turned his helm so that Tracks got a glimpse of glowing blue optics. “I would not object to more.”   
  
Tracks worked his intake. He scooted closer, the insides of his thighs warm against the outside of Mirage's legs. Their plating barely touched, but the potential was there in the snap-buzz of static between their armor.   
  
His fingers sought out those gaps and pushed beneath the armor plates, stroking the fine web of cables. Mirage shivered. His field spiked with pleasure. Charge nipped at Tracks' fingertips. Mirage's back vents puffed a wave of heat against Tracks' front.   
  
They were barely touching, but somehow, Tracks already felt as if they were in the middle of a hot and heavy, grinding, scraping, berth-breaking interface. His entire frame tingled. His field throbbed, pulsing in time with Mirage's. Need crawled out of his circuits, setting his internals ablaze.   
  
“Stop me if I go too far,” Tracks said as he inched closer yet again, his pelvis nearly flush with Mirage's aft. Their thighs pressed together and that slight pressure was enough to make him swallow down a moan. “I would not wish to presume.”   
  
Mirage's soft chuckle vibrated through his frame. Tracks caught movement from his peripheral vision and then hands rested on Tracks' knees, fingers curling up and under them to tickle at the sensitive hydraulics beneath.   
  
“I do not see that as a problem,” Mirage purred. “But do tell me if I am unwelcome as well.” His engine revved.   
  
Tracks cycled a ventilation and closed the last few inches between them, so that Mirage's back was flush with his chestplate. If the paint was not dry, he would redo it. For now, touching Mirage was far more important. He had a sexy and willing spy in his arms and Tracks was not going to squander this opportunity. He was no fool.   
  
He let one hand rest on Mirage's hip, fingers tweaking the visible cables. Mirage's plating was light as a general rule, granting him faster and more flexible movement. But it also left him more vulnerable.   
  
Or easier to please, if Tracks preferred to look at it that way. Which he did, because his fingers could plunge into Mirage's seams and wind in the wires beneath. He caressed and tugged and was rewarded with another shiver and Mirage pushing back toward him.   
  
“More,” Mirage breathed.   
  
“It will be my pleasure,” Tracks said. His other arm snaked around Mirage, petting the smooth glass of his curved windshield.   
  
Mirage arched in his arms, helm tilting back, baring the curve of his neck. It was too tasty to be ignored so Tracks pressed his lips to the stretched cables. He in-vented the sweet scent of Mirage – the saucy blend of oils and waxes – and nibbled at those offered cables.   
  
Charge danced out to meet him. Their fields clashed and tangled, pushing and swelling to the rise and fall of their matching ventilations. Tracks rocked against Mirage's back in minute motions, building up the friction between them without damaging the paint. Mirage's fingers wreaked havoc in his knees.   
  
Mirage pushed toward him. A low moan slipped free of his lips. His frame rocked against Tracks', need written so beautifully into his face.   
  
Tracks' other hand crept around Mirage as well, his palm sliding along Mirage's hip until it cupped his pelvic plating. His thumb dug into the seam at Mirage's thigh and hip, stroking the heated wires beneath. His fingers played over the heat of Mirage's plating, nipped by the charge that danced over Mirage's armor.   
  
It was so arousing as to be intoxicating. Tracks in-vented, drawing in the heated scent of Mirage's arousal, his hot plating, the charged ions in the air.   
  
“You are beautiful,” Tracks sighed into Mirage's audial, his lips skating a savoring path up Mirage's helm and back down to the curve of his neck.   
  
Mirage shivered and pushed back against him, the wet heat of his ventilations tickling through Tracks' seams. “Your hands are talented,” he replied.   
  
Tracks nuzzled his helm against Mirage's, licking at Mirage's audial. He felt the lovely spy shiver in his arms, the whirring of his vents a hint that he was close to overload. Tracks felt the same. His field rose and fell with Mirage's and the zaps of charge darting back and forth between them was intoxicating.   
  
“You are a joy to touch,” Tracks purred, pressing harder against Mirage's back.   
  
Now Tracks was the one shaking, the pleasure building within him into a tight coil.   
  
“Perhaps I might return the favor,” Mirage replied. His hands pushed up and down Tracks' thighs, drawing up the charge with little zaps of static. “Next time.”   
  
Next time. Tracks rather enjoyed the promise in Mirage's words.   
  
“I look forward to it,” Tracks purred, his fingers pushing in at Mirage's wires and drawing a moan from the spy. “But for now, let us concentrate on this one.”   
  
Mirage arched back against him, his pedes braced against the floor. “You'll see no argument from me,” he panted.   
  
Tracks grinned and nibbled on Mirage's bared cables, the heat of their frame turning the air around him into a wafting heat. Mirage became more mobile in his arms, gasping and pushing, his fingers gripping Tracks' knees tighter.   
  
He was close. Tracks could taste the oncoming overload in the air, the sweet anticipation of it on the tip of his glossa.   
  
He scraped a finger down the center seam of Mirage's chest, feeling the thrum of Mirage's spark beneath. Surely to be just as beautiful as the frame protecting it. Tracks wondered if he would be given the chance to see it, perhaps even taste it.   
  
But then the tip of his fingers caught in a seam nexus, allowing him to slip below where it scraped the thrumming edge of Mirage's spark chamber. Mirage gasped and arched in his arms, overload falling like a wave over the noblemech. He shook and moaned, charge lighting up his armor in bright bursts of blue and white.   
  
Tracks' engine revved. He tightened his arms around Mirage, feeling the charge snap at his own armor like a pleasurable bite. He buried his face against the back of Mirage's shoulder and rocked his hips against Mirage, letting Mirage's excess charge push him over the edge. Overload washed over him like a tide of electric heat.   
  
Mirage trembled in his arms. Tracks' own plating clattered. He recalled the skreel of metal on metal and realized, he'd scraped Mirage's paint all over again. Oh, dear. Now he would have to redo his own work.   
  
Such a tragedy.   
  
Tracks smiled against Mirage's shoulder and lifted his helm to press a kiss to Mirage's audial. The spy shivered full-frame.   
  
“Mmm,” Mirage said as he stretched out his limbs and leaned back against Tracks, tilting so that his helm fell against Tracks' shoulder. “That was nice.”   
  
“I fear I've damaged your paint,” Tracks said. His palm moved to Mirage's ventral armor, stroking it gently. The rattling thrum of Mirage's cooling fans was a purr against his fingertips.   
  
Mirage chuckled. “You plan to fix it?”   
  
“Of course.”   
  
“Then I don't mind at all.” Mirage settled a bit more firmly against him. “In a moment, however.”   
  
Tracks dropped a kiss onto Mirage's shoulder. “The cuddling type, hm?”   
  
“More like the savoring type.” Mirage's hands rested on his knees, fingers tapping an odd rhythm. “I am thoroughly enjoying your, ahem, assistance.”   
  
Tracks grinned. “Then let it be known that I am pleased to assist you at any time, my dear.”   
  
“And I am willing to return the favor.” Mirage's field flexed against his, ripe with the heat-static of desire. “But first, you have some scrapes to fix.”   
  
Tracks burst into laughter as he squeezed Mirage in a brief hold, tasting the amusement in the other mech's field. “That I do.”  
  
And he planned to enjoy every minute of it.   
  


****


	2. Addendum: Friendly Advice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jazz has a bit of advice for Tracks regarding his relationship with Mirage.

It was more than a little startling to walk into his room, switch on the lights, and see Jazz casually reclined on his berth.

Tracks blinked and reminded himself that Jazz was, first and foremost, an Autobot. He was the friendliest member of high command. And the only mechs he was interested in hurting were Decepticons.

He tried not to remember that beneath Jazz’s flashy smile and sense of humor, lurked a shadowy demon that even the worst Cons had come to fear.

“Can I help you?” Tracks asked, careful to keep his tone pleasant, though he could do little for the spike of fear that tainted his field.

Jazz stretched languidly and slid down from the berth as though his struts were liquid. “I’m thinkin’, actually, that I can help you.”

Tracks chuckled and kept a fair bit of distance between himself and the other mech. Though he knew Jazz was fast, he hoped to get maybe a half-second of warning. Maybe long enough to screech over the comms? If Jazz hadn’t blocked them.

“Help me with what?” Tracks asked brightly.

“Not makin’ a terrible mistake.” Jazz was still grinning as he stalked toward Tracks, leaving no room for him to move out of the way. “I hear that you and my mech got a little somethin-somethin goin’ on, and I just want to make sure you understand how things work.”

Tracks swallowed thickly. “Is this the part where you threaten me?” he asked with another nervous laugh. “I thought they only did that in movies?”

“Threaten?” Jazz waved a dismissive hand and laughed. “For one, I don’t threaten, I promise. And two, threatening is a kind of juvenile thing, yeah? I mean, Mirage is a grown mech. He can make his own choices.”

Tracks looked anxiously toward his door. He didn’t think he could make it. “I don’t get it.”

And then Jazz was there, right in front of his face, so close that Tracks absolutely did not yelp. “I just want ya to know that if ya hurt him, they won’t ever find the pieces, got me?”

“That’s kind of unfair, isn’t it?” Tracks proposed, and oh Primus, he was going to die. Why did he have to be so belligerent? “I mean, I don’t know what’s going to happen.”

“Oh, I know that things happen. Relationships fall apart for one reason or another. People hurt each other. It happens.” Jazz lifted a hand and poked Tracks in the chestplate, right over his Autobot symbol. “All I’m sayin’ is that if I catch ya hurtin’ him on purpose, you and me, we’re gonna have a problem. Got it?”

Tracks nodded. “Got it.” Crystal. Loud and clear. Warning heard and registered.

“Good.” Jazz patted him on the chestplate. “So long as we understand each other.” He stepped back with a little dancing skip. “Have a nice recharge.”

“You, too.”

Tracks watched him go, with a groove to his movements, and didn’t cycle a ventilation of relief until the door slid shut.

It might have taken Tracks a bit longer than usual until he felt he could safely move.

Primus save him from overprotective commanders.

Damn.


End file.
